


John Watson Tokes Up

by HisBeloved



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bisexual John, F/M, Genetics, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Grieving John, John Watson is in fact a rather intelligent man, John does too, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marijuana, NOT PWP, Not Beta Read, PTSD John, Past Mary Morstan/John Watson, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sapiosexual Sherlock, Sherlock likes things a bit more hardcore, Sherlock realizing that he's attracted to intelligence, genomics, patience is a virtue, sort of slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-06-27 16:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HisBeloved/pseuds/HisBeloved
Summary: In the wake of The Final Problem, John Watson is falling apart.  His PTSD is worse than it had been after Afghanistan, he keeps seeing Mary everywhere he looks, and he can't get over the feeling that every therapist might just kidnap him - or is, at the very least, not who they claim to be.Enter Mycroft Holmes, an obscene amount of medical grade cannabis backed by the British government, and a plan to help bring back Sherlock's John Watson.  Which leads to an experiment, a woman perfect for John, and Sherlock realizing that he does have feelings, and they are for his John Watson.





	1. A Problem is Identified

**Author's Note:**

> Johnlock is my original OTP. This is the first work that I've posted in this fandom; it will be multi-chapter, I'm not sure of the chapter count at this time but it shouldn't be too long. I update as often as I can, when inspiration strikes me (which is often). I'm also writing a multi-chapter Severus Snape/OTP fic called Everyday Chemistry, so that competes with my time, too. 
> 
> I also work a part time job, go to online school, knit like the wind, homeschool my child, have three others who are grown and out of the house, and wife my husband. And my man and my children are far more important than fanfiction.
> 
> This hasn't been beta'd and I will make no money off of the publication of this work.
> 
> Also, just to put this out there, I have a total thing for John Watson (and Martin Freeman's mouth and tongue), but the original female character in this story is not me. I used to practice medicine once upon a time, so there's that similarity, but that's where it ends. Although, I'm not against you imagining yourself in her spot. Things will go very well for her, until they don't.
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated. Also, this is a large fandom with awesome authors, so if you like the work I'd love it if you would recommend it.

It was Mycroft of all people who gave Sherlock the cannabis.  He'd told Sherlock that he was concerned about John and wanted him to give it a try.  Told him that he'd researched it thoroughly, had spoken to some of the best minds, and they all agreed that it might be the answer to John's problems. That he would come to the flat tomorrow bearing gifts for John, because he knew that Sherlock didn't enjoy cannabis and, therefore, it wouldn’t be an issue having it around the flat.

Sherlock knew a few people (alright, he'd deduced them, but it's practically the same thing) who use cannabis to manage health conditions. There was the medic who often came to crime scenes - veteran, Iraq, amputated left lower limb, severe PTSD managed quite well with cannabis.  Excellent medic, always professional.  One of the best that he’s observed in recent memory.  Always gives John a tight grin of acknowledgement, which John always gives back.  Is always slightly stoned.

Mrs. Hudson, whose hip pain is bad enough that she's worried that she needs a hip replacement.  No stranger to recreational marijuana; it manages her pain quite well, actually.  Keeps her active, helps her attend her many social engagements, she tolerates it exceedingly well. In fact, she’d gone clay shooting in Windermere just two weekends ago. She'd told him that she was using it before he had even thought to deduce it. Unprecedented, that.

The researcher in the labs near the morgue.  Studies genomics; currently studying  rapid whole genome sequencing in baby girls in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. American. Canceled wedding, had connections in England, decided to stay on indefinitely. Anxiety due to childhood trauma – middle-class household, unstable, abusive, likely bipolar mother. Years, frankly, of therapy.  Had multiple panic attacks each week until she found a supplier, since then has had only two.  Very promising researcher – wouldn't mind talking to her, really – he's already read one of her articles in _Science_ and it was quite a thought provoking read.

They had all, obviously, benefited from cannabis with remarkably positive outcomes.  Granted, the sample size was small, but everyone knows that cannabis has a myriad of legitimate, medical uses.  Extreme nausea during cancer treatment, for example, almost always dissipates with cannabis usage.  He is not against this course of action.  He cannot decide if John will be for it or against it.

Yet another opportunity to thoroughly study John.

 ***********************************************

John freely admits that his panic attacks and PTSD have gotten significantly worse in the year that Mary's been dead.  He felt tremendous guilt over his text-affair, which very likely could have become a true affair; very nearly did – very nearly did.

And can we not forget that his chosen target was in fact Sherlock's criminally insane sister who can manipulate minds like some sort of deranged super-villain.  Because of course she was. His entire life had been one fucked up moment after another if he thinks about it too hard.

He spends a lot of time thinking about it too hard. 

He sees Mary get shot in his dreams.  No matter how hard he tries, no matter what he does to keep her going into that room, no matter how quickly he moves to save her, no matter how vigorously he tries to wrestle the gun from Vivian Norbury, she still gets shot.  Night after night after night.

She talks to him at the most random moments, always looking so smug, like she's the answers to all of his questions – just like when he'd first met her.  When he'd shagged her rotten in her bed after a very charged first date, and when they'd fucked so hard the next morning (yes, he'd stayed, she'd insisted) that one of her bed slats gave way and they just kept on going.

When he'd looked in her eyes and found a release from his staggering grief over Sherlock. 

The Mary that he saw was the Mary he’d decided – really wanted – to spend the rest of his life with.  To build a home with, grow old with; maybe become a country doctor with.  Back then he’d been so optimistic.

He looks at Rosie, beautiful Rosie, who will never know her mother.  Who will grow up without a primary, dominant female role model.  Whose father can't make it through the day without Klonopin – prescribed, of course, by a psychiatrist that he’s known since medical school (who is exceedingly trustworthy and was vetted by none other than The British Government himself).

Rosie, whose father was a government trained sniper and who can, quite frankly, be a very dangerous man should the need arise. 

And we can't forget that his last therapist, who he'd thought was brilliant, perhaps as brilliant as Sherlock (irony of ironies), had shot and kidnapped him, had dragged him into a twisted game that she'd concocted to win Sherlock from Mycroft and him which ended with him chained up in the bottom of a well with frigid water rapidly rising. A well where he'd found the bones of Sherlock's baby brother, who had unfortunately not been saved from Eurus's machinations.

He’d come so close to death, and he’d realized that he didn’t want to die, so something good came out of the whole homicidal Eurus debacle.  She may have dropped three men off of a cliff but she’d saved John Watson from putting a gun in his mouth.

Oh, and let's not forget that she was behind everything Moriarty had done and, therefore, Sherlock jumping from the roof of St. Bart's.  Which gave his current state of mental health some sort of twisted symmetry, really.

Also that he and his precious, innocent daughter were the flat mates of Eurus Holmes’s brother. 

So not much to set him off, really.  

Has he mentioned that he’d become bitingly sarcastic, sometimes downright vicious, to said flat mate, who also was his best friend and whom he trusted implicitly?

Sherlock had tried to help, but because his grasp on human emotion is tenuous at best, he'd had very little clue of what to do.  He did locate the psychiatrist who would give John the Klonopin, because it was that or a mental hospital. Sherlock was adamant that he not get locked up.  That if Culverton Smith had taught the world anything, it's that hospitals aren't as safe as we'd like to think they are. 

Mrs. Hudson, LeStrade, and Mycroft were keeping a close eye on his usage and watching Sherlock for any signs of abuse (John couldn’t imagine Sherlock on downers.  The man never slept.  He couldn’t stand to be still, to stop. Cocaine derivatives were more his speed).

Hah!  A pun!  

When it came to actual emotion, however, Sherlock was out of his element – the only time, really, that he was ever out of his element.

And then Sherlock and he'd been at St. Bart's and passed Stewart, that young, ginger EKG tech that sometimes moonlighted at the clinic and he'd realized that Stewart was high.  Not so high that his work would suffer, but high enough that he wasn't jittery all of the time.  But he most definitely was high.  He could smell it on him and saw a vaporizer in the back pocket of his scrubs.  He'd stopped him and pointedly looked at it and said, “Best keep that out of sight,” and Stewart had smiled and said, “Helps with the ADHD.  I function quite a bit better with it compared to any of the pharmaceuticals I've tried.  Hardly ever see the doctor anymore. Frankly, Dr. Watson, it's a miracle drug.  You should read up on it.”  Then he’d given him that look, the one that says, I understand, I’ve been there, it sucks but there is an end.

John was having trouble seeing an end.

So he’d followed Stewart’s advice and he'd learned that some places in the world had already legalized its use. He knew about Amsterdam, of course, but Canada?  That Colorado allowed it for medical use and most likely recreational use would follow.  That California was a major legal cannabis grower. That in addition to it helping the intractable nausea of chemotherapy, it was a medically sound treatment for depression, anxiety, certain seizure types, pain syndromes including migraine cephalgia, irritable bowel disease, fibromyalgia, and PTSD. 

He'd thought about it for days.  Spoke with Mrs Hudson, Molly, even LeStrade, and all of them were of the mind that if it would help him, he should try it. Mycroft blythely mentioned in an aside that he knew someone that could ease his “little problem” and that he might be in possession of a sample.  And then he’d shown up the next morning with a staggering amount of medical grade marijuana in huge nugs with truly obscene amounts of kush.

Sherlock had taken it from Mycroft when John had hesitated.  He'd hesitated for obvious reasons, the first and foremost being that British government was handing over what looked to be at the very least five ounces of cannabis - five fucking ounces! Mycroft had assured them that they would receive no trouble from law enforcement. He’d given John at least an ounce each of several different varieties, all clearly labeled, with an accompanying folio – leather, nice at that – of each variety, their uses, expected effects, where the pot was grown, complete with soil analyses and growth and environmental reports and other minutia that Mycroft had said he could read on his own.

Sherlock had made the comment that he didn't care about cannabis – it dulled his senses and if he wanted to shut down heroin was much more interesting. Which, strangely, didn’t worry John all that much, considering Sherlock never shut down.  Mycroft had actually laughed – it was more of a grunt, but still.  And then he'd given Sherlock the cannabis and texted Anthea, who arrived with bags containing a vaporizer, a grinder, and five storage containers. 

“I'm told that the vaporizer is top of the line.” Mycroft said. “It's a convection vaporizer, which is vastly superior to a conduction vaporizer.  Start with the OG Cush, and then the Blue Dream. When you start feeling more yourself, move to the Cannotonic. The rest you can play around with.”  John found the idea of Mycroft Holmes speaking about various cannabis varietals enormously surreal, and yet, there is was.

So that was it, really.  He read the manual for the vaporizer, found out that it had cost 300 pounds and was, indeed, top of the line. The grinder had been 125 pounds for Christ’s sake, but was the best grinder on the market.  Nothing but the best for the Holmes boys.

He thought back to that time in Afghanistan, before the worst fighting, when some men in his platoon had asked him to smoke some pot with them; that night had been the best sleep he’d had in the desert.  He’d smoked a bit recreationally in university – had his fair share of stoned shags, so it’s not like he was a blushing virgin.  That thought had actually made him laugh out loud, alone in his bedroom (Sherlock had Rosie.  Sherlock was actually an amazing babysitter.  Rosie adored him.  He treated her as if the earth revolved around her – which it possibly could, in his mind devoid of basic knowledge of the solar system. He was presently calling her his drooling masticator, as she was currently teething.)

So John listened to Mycroft for once and ground up the OG Cush, which stank up the entire flat, packed it into the vaporizer, examined his conscience one last time, and toked up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, John and Rosie have moved into the flat. Yes, John and Sherlock are still totally clueless about their feeling for each other. Yes, John still insists he isn't gay - he's not ready to admit that he finds both men and women sexually attractive.
> 
> I'd like to believe that John really did love Mary when he married her. He's a good guy; he wouldn't enter into something as important as marriage without being sure of what he was doing (at least until a drunken, handsy bachelor party made him question what he was doing - my opinion, totally).
> 
> For those of you that don't know stoner lingo, here's what I've referred to in this chapter:
> 
>  _nugs_ \- The individual buds of dried cannabis flower, before it is ground up. Large nugs are very prized. [Here's a picture](http://www.thcfinder.com/marijuana-blog/nugs/2013/08/gdp-nugs). It will take you to a site about marijuana, so click at your own risk.
> 
>  _kush_ \- a classification of an indica and mixed indica/sativa strains of cannabis; kush strains have numerous pistils (hairs) that are orange, bronze, or rust colored. People get really excited when they see a lot of pistils on their nugs as it shows that it is a quality product.
> 
>  _indica, sativa, mixed strains_ are all explained [ here](https://www.leafly.com/news/cannabis-101/sativa-indica-and-hybrid-differences-between-cannabis-types). You will be taken to a 21+ age-restricted site.
> 
> The varietals that I've used in the story are all recommended for the treatment of PTSD.
> 
> In the US in cannabis-illegal states, you can have anywhere between 0 oz (Arizona) to 4 oz before you receive automatic felony charges and imprisonment. [This page](https://www.drugtreatment.com/expose/marijuana-felony-amounts-by-state/) shows a nice graphic of the state of legalization in the U.S. 
> 
> 5 oz is, quite frankly, a shit ton of marijuana for someone who is a new medical user.
> 
> In the UK, cannabis is a Class B drug and illegal to grow, distribute, or possess. It will buy you a minimum sentence of 5 years imprisonment and up to 14 years. Since I don't live in the UK I'm not sure how strictly this is enforced; there are some parts of the US where cannabis remains illegal but drug courts are turning more of a blind eye toward possession, especially if there is a legitimate medical reason to have it.
> 
> [This article](https://www.medicalnewstoday.com/articles/320984.php) is a fairly unbiased an comprehensive look at the pros and cons of medical marijuana.


	2. A Proposal is Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft visits, giving Sherlock a progress report. A plan is hatched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos! I am amazed at how many I've gotten so soon! When you write a Snape/OTP story, the audience has to be persuaded a bit; Johnlocker's are hungry for more more more! I love this ship,
> 
> Not beta'd, I'm not receiving money, all that legal blather.

A month later, while John was taking an overnight shift at A&E (his first in quite a while), Sherlock returned from survielling his suspect to find Mycroft resting in John's chair, a fire going, drinking tea from a china teacup.

“Bringing your own teacups now, Mycroft?” he asked, his voice terse, stopping as he ran into his bedroom to change into more suitable nightclub attire. He'd change into the jewel blue silk shirt with those black pants that pushed his bum up . . .

". . . saw John chatting up that blonde nurse in A&E,” Mycroft was drawling out rather loudly

Sherlock spun on his heel and marched back into the living room, sitting on the edge of the Le Corbusier staring irritably at Mycroft.

“Yes, the nurse got your attention -” Mycroft said in his drool, bored disaffection.

“I don't have time for this, Mycroft! The suspect is heading to Heaven and if I don't get there right now I will lose him.”

“He has been detained, Sherlock. I knew that the only way I would have your undivided attention was if one Troy Albertson was taken out of the picture. He is currently in the custody of the British Government where he belongs. Now back to the discussion at hand . . .”

“You usurped my investigation?” Sherlock leapt out of his chair, walking back and forth in a rapid stalk, roaring at Mycroft, “Of all the things you could do to me, Mycroft – bringing Moriarty into my life, neglecting to tell me about the existence of Eurus, letting me think for years that Redbeard was a dog – of all of those things – usurping my investigation is the one I cannot forgive!”

Mycroft let out a long-suffering sigh. “Don't be such a drama queen, Sherlock. It really doesn't suit you.”

Sherlock stopped cold and stared in anger at Mycroft before flopping down into a sulk on the sofa.

Mycroft stared at Sherlock for at least five minutes during which Sherlock continued to huff and flail about in his tantrum. He took one drink of tea during his wait, thanking the stars that John bought PG Tipps instead of that swill Sherlock used to buy. After Sherlock finally calmed, turned to face the back of the sofa, he finally spoke.

“As I was saying, Sherlock, it's been a month since I brought my gifts to John . . .”

Sherlock turned over with an irritable jerk and said, “Can we just call is pot, Mycroft? Weed, marijuana, cannabis? Because there is a dispensary in our home currently. That you supplied.”

Mycroft sighed a little more loudly this time and continued, “ . . . and he seems to be making steady improvement. I believe the threat of suicide has passed . . .”

“Thank God,” Sherlock murmured into the back of the sofa.

“What was that?”

“Piss off, Mycroft!” Sherlock yelled.

“He has made great strides, Sherlock, but we both know that there is still a good distance to go.” He took another sip of tea. Sherlock did not move, but he was listening.

“He is doing quite well in the A&E . . .”

“Having him monitored, are you?” Sherlock accused.

“Yes, actually. Despite what you might think, Sherlock, I have a great deal of respect for Dr. Watson. Should his evening have gone poorly, Inspector Lestrade was on back-up to bring him home. It appears that Lestrade's assistance won't be needed after all.”

Sherlock smiled to himself and then turned his head infinitesimally toward Mycroft.

“He still needs psychological help. And no, Mrs. Hudson is not enough, nor is she interested. I did notice, however, that he's been weaning himself off of the Klonopin. He has become much more of a help to you during your investigations and is relying on nannies less and less.”

“We don't use nannies,” Sherlock spit acidly. “Molly and Mrs Hudson sit with Rosie. Harry's had her a bit. They babysit, Mycroft. A world does exist beyond the Diogenes Club.”

“I am well aware, Sherlock. John is showing interest in dating again.”

“And?”

“And he will no doubt be bringing women to the flat. He will be on dates when Lestrade calls with a case, and he should not be expected to join you. He will need his own life, Sherlock. Are you prepared for that?”

Sherlock buried himself more into the couch as he tried to convince himself that yes, he was ready for that. It didn't matter anyway, it was all sentiment, and John would never really abandon him. He couldn't. He was his John. His blogger. And Rosie was his Mendelian masticator. 

“Your worries are worthless, Mycroft. John is immensely loyal. He won't leave.”

“He will if he finds another woman to care for. You and I both know that John puts a great deal of importance behind romantic and sexual relationships. And he will be looking for a mother for Rosamund.”

“She's called 'Rosie',” Sherlock corrected petulantly under his breath.

Mycroft put down his teacup on the awaiting saucer and stood, examining the mantle. “Could I offer you a piece of advice?”

“You're going to anyway . . .”

“You cannot stop John from becoming involved with a woman. You can, however, vet the woman that he becomes involved with and control the initial meeting. I will leave it up to you to figure out how to accomplish that.”

Mycroft let himself out of the apartment quietly, leaving the flat as if he'd never been there. The irrational part of Sherlock's brain tried to convince himself that Mycroft had never been there, that it had all been a hallucination, but he hadn't taken any illicit drugs since Eurus revealed herself to him. It was too dangerous to be intoxicated now. He could not visit her, could not try to understand his sister if he were incapacitated. He couldn't protect John and Rosie.

John hadn't had intercourse in well over a year. Toward the end of Mary's life they barely acknowledged each others existence, much less had sex. It was one of the things that Eurus had taken advantage of; she had very nearly succeeded in bedding John. She had not counted on John's strength of character, however; she couldn't have predicted his moral integrity.

John had been a very sexual person. It was a dominate trait of his personality, even if he kept it hidden under horrifying jumpers and ill fitting trousers. It was something that he needed, and as much as he despised Mycroft's advice, he was correct; if John continued his improvement, he would be seeking outside companionship.

Sherlock had three viable options: sabotage John's recovery, keeping him dependent on Sherlock. This would not be the optimal course of action, and would infuriate John. It might even destroy him, and Sherlock had done enough of that already. Which left leaving John to his own devices, letting him bring home more boring, vacuous blondes, or control the events so that John would end up with a suitable woman: someone who was beautiful, because John deserved beauty in his life, someone who was intelligent, because Sherlock couldn't bear the prospect of Rosie being raised by someone with anything less than a stellar intellect, someone alluring and sexual, someone whom John would find fit, because John needed to be happy with his sex life. Someone safe. This was perhaps the most important quality.

Sherlock was still in the same position many hours later when John returned from his shift. John said hello, told Sherlock that he was going feed Rosie and then they were both going down for a nap, that it had been a great shift, but he was worn out, and Sherlock heard none of it. He was too busy solidifying his plan, lining up a queue of appropriate female acquaintances in the guest section of his mind palace.

Half an hour after John and Rosie had fallen asleep, Sherlock sat up abruptly in the couch with a calculating grin. There was work to be done. 

The players had been chosen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's chair is a [Le Corbusier](https://iconicinteriors.com/designer_furniture/category/chairs/le_grand_confort_armchair/#.W3YdY-hKiM8) [Grand Comfort](http://sherlockmeta.tumblr.com/post/65142401941/mid0nz-in-the-blind-banker-one-of-the-carriers). It's very low to the ground and wonderful for great fits of ennui. Someone whom I assume visited the set [said that it's horribly uncomfortable.](https://www.reddit.com/r/Sherlock/comments/7ofwm9/the_chairs_john_and_sherlock_sit_in/)
> 
> John's chair is a random upholstered chair probably picked up by Mrs. Hudson at a charity shop. Even their chairs are perfect representations of them.
> 
> I love this show.
> 
>  _Mendelian masticator_. [Gregor Mendel](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gregor_Mendel) was a Czechoslovakian geneticist who used crossed pea plants resulting in the discovery of dominant and recessive genes. He is the first person that you learn about in any genetics class. He's like a patriarch - the Abraham - of the genetic world. Rosie likes peas.
> 
> I just want you to know that if you re-read a chapter of this story, you might find a few words changed here or there, or a phrase inserted, or something corrected. As I'm re-reading, I edit. I try to limit how much editing that I do once published, but it seems to help me polish the story when I make it public.


	3. A Player Is Introduced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A player is introduced, and the game takes an unexpected turn. Rosie is a genius.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still no beta. So there's bound to be mistakes.
> 
> I initially went on a bit of a rant in the comments. I removed it because I'm sort of sorry about it and sort of not. Please remember that fan fiction is free and we put a lot into it. It's a hobby. I'm not a professional writer, I have a life as do all other fan fiction writers. If you want to help with the fic, contact me! Become a beta! Otherwise try to trust that your authors know where they are going with their fics. And just enjoy your experience. 
> 
> Remember, PWP is an awesome tag, but this isn't a PWP.

Tinsley Chesterton was pleasant to look at with rather symmetrical features. She was blonde, so John would like that. She was witty and quick with a comeback. Had an impressive family tree (a negative in John's book BUT) she was incredibly modest, kind, and approachable (giving her positive characteristics for a mate). Loved a good, dark, small corner bistro, she could pick the venue – it would impress John. She worked in health care administration, giving them mutual interests. Their features were comparable. Was barely plump (Sherlock had noted long ago that John preferred women who were at the upper end of an acceptable BMI). She was a flirt and would probably initiate the date. She had used Sherlock on an extortion case before he had met John and had been forever grateful. She was very sentimental.

They met in the atrium of Barts. He'd routed an important piece of paperwork that was rather urgent away from her desk at Great Ormond to her counterpart's desk at St. Barts. They were outside the main entrance of Barts (the probability that the main entrance would be used is the highest based the location of Genevieve Yates' office in the building). They were on a case that Sherlock had solved while in the cab directly en route to their present location. Lestrade would be called directly after introductions were made, giving John time alone with Tinsley. Sherlock was pretending to be deep in his manic thinking phase, pacing back and forth, situated where he could observe everyone coming out of the hospital. Then he caught sight of her.

He rushed into the atrium and brushed against her, eliciting a pleased, “Sherlock Holmes?” out of her.

He turned looking surprised and said, “Tinsley! Fancy running into you here! John and I, however, are in a bit of a rush -”

She looked a bit crestfallen that she wasn't going to get the opportunity to chat with him (boring, but something he was counting on, and then . . .)

“Sherlock, I'm sure we have just a moment to speak with Miss -”

“Oh! Miss Chesterton.” She held out her hand to John and very quickly looked him up and down. Liked what she saw (obviously – Sherlock knew her preferences as well) giving him a coy smile.

John smiled back, laying on the old Watson charm, giving a bit of a lopsided grin and then biting his lower lip (that always worked on the women Sherlock had observed) and taking her hand.

She blushed. John was exceedingly good at this. Women almost launched themselves at him. It was embarrassing, really. 

“Ah, yes, John. Tinsley and I have known each other since upper levels.”

“I used Sherlock perhaps ten years ago when I was being extorted over some photos – the less said about that the better - but Sherlock found the people behind it and they are still in prison. Mycroft had a bit to do with that, we think," Tinsley explained.

John was smiling politely back and forth between Sherlock and Tinsley and giving Sherlock the “give me a minute, would you?” look so Sherlock walked away from them and looked at some pamphlets smiling smugly to himself. Of course he would be good at matchmaking. He was brilliant. And Tinsley was - well she was tolerable at least. And not an assassin with a covert ops group who would eventually shoot him. That bit was good, too.

After a moment, John was standing beside him, rocking back and forth on his feet, hands pushed into his trouser pockets, giving him one of his grins.

“So, Sherlock. Want to tell me how you manufactured that?” he said.

Sherlock looked at him in complete innocence. “It was totally coincidental that Tinsley was here. She works in hospital administration -”

“At Great Ormond -”

“Surely hospital people visit other hospitals, John.”

“Hospital people?” John huffed a laugh. “And, no, generally, they do not, Sherlock, unless a very important document is routed to another person at a totally different hospital for some unforeseen reason. Which also never happens.”

“Of course it does, John!”

“It was Great Ormond inter-office communication. Unless an interloper made it happen, a very important document from Great Ormond in inter-office communication would not end up here.  Ever.  Under any circumstances.”

He looked at Sherlock in accusation. Sherlock maintained his innocent posture.

John sighed and smiled eventually and said, “I have her number, Sherlock. She's quite lovely. I'm going to check my schedule and if all works out we are going to meet for dinner this Saturday. Are you happy?”

“I have no idea why you are insinuating that I had anything to do with Tinsley being here. But she is quite tolerable so yes, I am happy for you, John.”

John smiled and said, “Thank you, Sherlock, for arranging this, even though it is a bit - strange. It feels better starting this up again – dating – if I know that you approve of the woman.” He cocked his head and said, “It shouldn't, because you have terrible perception when it comes to this type of thing -"

“I do not! I know everything about a person within a moment, John! And I've known Tinsley since uppers, so your observation is irrelevant!”

John grinned and said, “Caught ya, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffed and turned for maximum Belstaff swish feigning annoyance. It didn't really matter whether John had figured out his involvement at this point or not. The date was on.

The game was afoot.

_____________________________________________

 

John had looked quite attractive when he'd left to pick up Tinsley. Button up shirt, suit jacket, nice trousers, new pair of loafers. He had picked out clothing that showed his assets at their best. Before he left, he gave Rosie a kiss on the forehead and squeezed Sherlock's arm. Rosie squirmed in Sherlock's arms trying to get to John and Sherlock had said, “Not right now, dear, daddy has a date with a very lovely woman,” and John had given him a fond smile. And then he left.

The wait was intolerable. All waiting was intolerable, but this was especially burdensome, even with Rosie's company and the anatomical figures that he had found to show her. She perhaps was a genius. She was only one, so any measure of intelligence at this point was unreliable, but she was exceedingly bright. She was fascinated with the inner ear, and really, who wasn't. The ear was fascinating, with it's bony architecture and tympanum and cochlear balance system. Rosie definitely understood everything that he was teaching her. She would be an otorhinolaryngology expert by the time she was three. He was certain of it.

John came home rather earlier than Sherlock was expecting. He had just put Rosie down (she had fallen asleep on the ear diagram) when he came through the door.

“Rosie asleep?” he asked as he hung up his coat.

“Just put her down. She is a genius, John. She knows the entire anatomy of the inner ear.”

“Of course she's a genius, Sherlock. How can she not be with you teaching her everything day in and day out? Tea?”

Sherlock shook his head in agreement and said, “You're home rather early.”

John sighed. “Yeah, we both decided to chalk it up to an unfortunate date with a really great person and call it an early evening.”

“An unfortunate date? I don't understand,” Sherlock said with genuine confusion.

“Yeah. Tinsley is beautiful, she's kind, she's quite accomplished but, I don't know, Sherlock, it just wasn't there. Everything was incredibly stilted and uncomfortable and the conversation was, for lack of a better word, painful.” John laughed to himself and said, “Quite frankly it was one of the worst dates I've ever been on, and I'm relatively certain she felt the same.”

“I just don't understand, John. She seemed to tick off all of your requirements: attractive, fit, winning personality -”

“You know, Sherlock, sometimes people just don't mesh. Sometimes, for reasons that we can never figure out, it just doesn't work. That spark isn't there, you know? But it was a step in a good direction. And I want to thank you for that.”

Sherlock did know about that spark. He did know how it made absolutely no practical sense. He'd felt it with The Woman, and that had been completely nonsensical. A lesbian pining after a gay man? And he, who had never had anything in the way of feelings for another woman, he had become quite enamored with Irene Adler. He'd put his life in danger to save her and would do it again without hesitation.

But an intimacy with Irene would require much more work than Sherlock could put into it. She deserved someone who had the time for her. He had The Work and John and now Rosie to think about and there simply wasn't enough room in his life to add her to the equation.

John returned from the kitchen with Sherlock's tea, sitting across from him in his chair. As Sherlock stared at John in thought, John said with sadness in his eyes, “But of course you don't know. We've been here too many times before, haven't we? Best to just let it lie, I suppose.” He looked at the floor, ran his hand over the back of his neck, and looked back at Sherlock. “Still,” John said with unexpected reverence, “I hope that someday you do understand. It would be quite a thing to see a besotted Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock's face got hot and he stared at John, who was now searching his eyes for something, looked as if he were working out a puzzle, the slightest smile on his face, his head tilted to the side. Sherlock felt his heart rate elevating and he felt the need to take a deep breath, but something kept him from doing it.

At that moment, they both heard Rosie jumping in her cot, making gurgled noises with her tongue on the monitor. John took a deep breath in and schooled his features, stood from his chair, and said, “Sound's like She-who-must-be-obeyed has woken up. I'll pop up after her, yeah?” Sherlock had nodded quickly, feeling slightly stunned, frozen in his spot.

He knew that he cared for John. The depth of feeling that he had for John Watson could not be quantified and words did not exist to define it. He considered John his, always had, even when he'd been married to Mary, even when everything went to shit and John wouldn't acknowledge his existence, even after the letter that had rended him to pieces and nearly destroyed him. John was still his and always would be his.

But John was very not gay and Sherlock was entirely gay.

John only dated women, and yet Sherlock had observed him on countless occasions looking at an attractive man a bit longer than necessary. He'd caught him watching bums and looking at mouths of men (and then licking his lips quickly in response), seen him furtively looking at crotches and admiring long legs in fitted trousers.

He'd caught John looking at him that way, more times than he could count, but John had always looked at him in wonder. It didn't mean anything.

But right then, at that exact moment, just like when he was on a case and the answer just came to him, it felt as if someone had blown a hole through the wall of the John Watson's suite in his mind palace. Because that look that John had given him, that had meant something, and Sherlock had given it back.

It had happened before. More times than he could count, that exchange of looks, but before there had been a hint of self-loathing or sexual identity crisis or fear. There had been none of that this time. Instead, there had been fondness, and also a bit of an unanswered question. There had been a shift in resolve. It had been quiet and peaceful and like everything was as it should be.

At that moment, he realized that if he could have deep, unbidden feelings for Irene Adler and she for him, then what was there to keep John Watson from having those same feelings for his consulting detective?

He came back to himself when John handed Rosie to him.

“Seems she wasn't ready for a lie down after all. Would you feed her? I've got to call Molly about watching her during my shift tomorrow night. Mrs. Hudson is visiting her sister this weekend and you're away at Sherrinford -”

Sherlock didn't move. He couldn't answer. Everything that he knew would somehow have to be re-ordered. He remembered that first stake out at Angelo's, the stilted conversation about Sherlock's sexual preferences and his answer that he was married to his work. How could he have known what John would become to him? Was John still under the impression that Sherlock was that same person? Surely John, who had a better command of human emotion than most, had seen that things had changed, that they were both completely different people. Surely John understood -

“Sherlock? Are you alright?”

It was John reaching for Rosie that brought him out of it. He didn't want to hand her over. Because Rosie Watson was his, too.

“Yes, John,” he said, and John looked at him again like he was an unsolvable mystery. “I've just realized something rather extraordinary and – I will need a bit of time.”

John was still squinting at him, but he said, “Alright. You know you can talk to me?” When Sherlock didn't answer and instead seemed to be studying Rosie's face, John said, “Are you sure you're fine?”

“Yes, John, I'm fine!” Sherlock said in irritation. “I said I'm fine and I meant it!”

“Yep, you're back. I'm going to call Molly then. I'll get Rosie's highchair ready,” John replied, and pulled out his phone on the way into the kitchen.

“I believe, nutkin, that the game has taken an unexpected turn,” he said to his otorhinolaryngology prodigy, who squealed in what Sherlock was sure was complete understanding. She was, after all, a genius.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Otorhinolaryngology is the study of the ear, nose, and throat.
> 
> She-who-must-be-obeyed is a nod to the classic British show [Rumpole of the Bailey](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rumpole_of_the_Bailey). He privately refers to his wife Hilda as She-who-must-be-obeyed. I grew up watching it with my parents on PBS and I'm sure John would have been acquainted with it as well.


	4. An Interlude: Sherrinford

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits Eurus at Sherrinford.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and comments. I'm so happy that so many of you are enjoying the story.
> 
> I have no beta.
> 
> I am making no money. I just love my Baker Street boys.

Sherlock waited for the harsh buzz that signified that he should push open the door to the visitor’s intake at Sherrinford High Security Hospital for the Criminally Insane.  He removed his Belstaff and belt, opened the violin case, removed its contents and placed them in the waiting tray.  Removed his shoes and turned his trouser pockets inside out. Stepped through the metal detector, which would not go off as he was careful to not wear any metal other than the belt buckle, which was currently being scanned by the stern-faced prison matron in the x-ray machine.  Stepped to the side and put his arms out to the horizontally, spread his legs for the wand check.  On randomly chosen days he was subjected to a cavity search; it seemed today he would be spared that indignity as the prison matron signaled that he could pack up his violin case and proceed to check-in.

Sherlock visited Eurus every other weekend as his case schedule permitted (Mycroft, and sometimes his parents, visited on the alternate weekends).  He was accompanied during his visits by the prison’s psychologist, whose name he had promptly deleted, and a random armed guard.  Eurus never spoke.  He hadn’t heard her voice since she had taken over the prison.  She had spoken openly with him at the estate, had spoken of the anger that she had felt in being usurped by Victor, the loneliness that she was unequipped to handle.  She remained unrepentant for all the deaths that lay in her wake.  She did not seem to understand the importance of them.

Since her return to Sherrinford their conversations had consisted of the plaintive notes of their respective violins.  She was an exceptional musician, able to entrance with the draw of her bow.  They would sit, him on one side of the bullet-proof glass, her facing him on the other, and play for hours, becoming reacquainted with each other. 

The music was often full of sorrow.  She was deeply lonely.  Understandably, she felt forgotten.  With that came an undercurrent of chilling rage, that Mycroft had let everyone that mattered to her believe her dead.  Her song would go from plaintive to harsh and discordant at the flick of her wrist, her eyes mirroring her rage.

Sherlock would answer with apologies.  He apologized for having forgotten her.  For erasing her existence from his memories, for not knowing that he had such a brilliant, fascinating sister – a sister who idolized him with a ferocious, terrifying ardor.  Those notes were spare and plaintive, slow and often gentle.  He refused to beg for her forgiveness; he felt that, underneath it all, she desired that above everything else.  Her actions during the prison siege had negated any chance of that ever happening, however.  That conversation had been sharp and forceful.  He had broken a string trying to get his anger at her actions across.  He had played with so much fury that day – telling her in song that what she had done was viewed as unforgiveable by most, that she had nearly taken away the only people in his life that he truly cared for, that no matter how brilliant he thought her, she could not have made up for the loss of John or Molly – or Mycroft.  He berated her for John’s deteriorated mental state (which she had taken a sick delight in initially, but was now repentant for, now that she knew that she had Sherlock, that he wasn’t going to abandon her again).

She had made it clear in her notes that if she wanted to take over again she could. If she so chose, she would leave the prison, would wreak havoc once again on his and Mycroft’s lives.  That she would not be cast aside. Sherlock had no doubt of her abilities. It would be no problem for her, really; she seemed to be able to mold the minds of those around her with just a look.  She was both the most frightening and fascinating person that Sherlock had ever met.  That, in and of itself, enthralled him and he fully realized that she had been counting on that, that is was quite possible (actually, a surety) that she had been manipulating him from the moment he had met her in his cocaine fueled state all those months ago.

And yet he had made a promise to himself and to her that he wouldn’t leave her, at least not of his own volition.  He had no control over Mycroft’s whims; she knew as well as he did that if Mycroft deemed it necessary she would be moved with no input from Sherlock or their parents.  If Mycroft deemed it necessary, she would be hidden away, never to be seen again.  Mycroft had made it quite plain to him that if he even got a whiff that Eurus was attempting another insurrection that it would be ended swiftly with a bullet to the back of the head. 

Mycroft would not let sentimentality get in the way of service to country.  Not even for his tragically broken sister.

She already had her violin when he stepped into the room adjoining hers.  Already had it raised to her chin, waiting patiently as Sherlock removed his from the case, applied rosin to his bow, folded the tea towel that he used on his shoulder.  When he raised his bow, she played the A string continuously as he adjusted his, bringing his violin in perfect tune with hers.  They worked their way through the strings until they were both one tuned to the other.  And then he waited.

She looked over the violin at him and played something very elementary, a tune that resembled something that a beginning violinist would learn.  This was new.  He waited.  She continued in this way for a time and then started playing something quite complex, a tune that required his full attention to understand.  She wanted his attention.  And she believed that he didn’t know, or needed to learn, what she was trying to say.

He played back something placating, something that said, “I’m listening.  Tell me what you want me to know.”

Her eyes narrowed, as if what she had to say was difficult to understand, or possibly difficult for her to convey.  The resulting music was soft and yearning, romantic.  It was filled with want and need. 

They both had their individual styles.  Sherlock suspected that to the casual observer the music that they played to each other would seem similar or maybe even the same.  He, however, heard the differences in how she played – how she put extra vibrato on certain phrases, how she lengthened or shortened notes that he would play differently.  How she put different emphasis on expressions than him.  Interestingly, as she played to him today, she was mimicking his style, something that she had never done.

“You are expressing something that you believe I feel,” he said, hoping that he would get confirmation.

She smiled, and her notes took on an agreeable feel in her own style.  She then paused and returned to the yearning notes that she had been playing before.  The notes were taut with want, want that felt unfulfilled, and transitioned into desire and lust.

And then she did something that she had never done, in all the weeks that they had been playing for one another.  She stepped away from her own free form music, her own communication, and she played something that sent shivers up Sherlock’s spine.

When John had been healthier, back in the early days, back in the days that he had been chipper and carefree, he would often hum as he tinkered about the apartment.  He had an affinity for The Beatles and the song that most often came from him, in those moments when he was cleaning or cooking dinner was “Love Me Do.”  He had told Sherlock that it wasn’t really his favorite song, per se, but it was catchy and often in his head.  That he loved The Beatles and when he needed a bit of bounce, “Love Me Do” was as good a song as any.

As the notes washed over him, jaunty and chipper, Sherlock knew without a doubt that Eurus was saying something to him about John.  He felt as if ice had been directly injected into his veins.  Eurus had never spoken so directly about John, and when she had, it had only been to get across the sadness that she felt at being replaced with him.  She believed that she could fill the spot in Sherlock’s world that John currently held.  She wanted it desperately.

But then the song shifted.  Sherlock sense that Eurus seemed to be trying to say that she meant no one any harm or ill will. ‘Love Me Do’ shifted into the plaintive, yearning melody and then back again until the two songs became their own melody, something new and strong and whole.  And then the notes of longing reemerged.  Throughout all of this, she stared at him with intensity.

He stared back at her.  Of course she knew of his feelings for John.  But how could she have realized the shift that had occurred.  How could she know that just yesterday his world had burst open with the realization that John could be his?  Did she realize that?

“I need –,“ he realized that he was whispering and that his whole body was shaking.  He took in a deep breath and modulated his breathing and spoke again, louder and with more authority. “Eurus, I need to know what you are trying to say to me.  I don’t want to guess this time.”

She stared at him, expressionless and ran her bow across the strings.

“No!” Sherlock shouted.  He heard the prison psychologist shift in his chair and could feel the armed guard stiffen with attention. “I need you to speak!  Why can’t you just speak?  Tell me what you are trying to say!  Please, Eurus.” He closed his eyes, angry at how desperate he had sounded.  She did not need that to hold over him.  And yet, who was he kidding, she already knew everything there was to know about him, every button that she could push.

She walked to the hopper that she placed her violin in when she was done playing. This usually signaled that she was done with him.  She would stand by the hopper with her back turned to him until he left.  This time, however, she came back and sat in front of him again, looking levelly at him, calm and cold.  For the briefest of moments, she looked sad for him, sad that he didn’t understand her.  And then she stood and turned her back to him.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. Tried to tamp down his desperation to know her mind, to know exactly what she was trying to tell him about John.  She hadn’t come across as malicious.  She’d been as gentle as he had ever seen her, as if she was being careful to let him know that she had no evil intent.  She knew that he yearned for John, that much was certain.  But there had to be more.

Why wouldn’t she just speak?

He stood and began putting his violin away.  It was no use trying to engage her when she was done with him.  There was nothing he could say or do that would get her to even acknowledge him once she signaled that she was done.  Still, he always turned to her, hoping that she would respond when he told her goodbye.  That she would act at least a little human.

He was shocked to see her turned around, sitting again in her chair.  She nodded her head as his chair as if trying to tell him to sit back down.

He sat.

“You understand so much, Sherlock.  You can look at a person and know everything about them with just a glance.  Yet when it comes to your own mind you are completely lost.  You struggle with the most basic emotions.”

“One could say the same thing about you,” he said cautiously.

“On the contrary.  It is emotion that I understand most of all.  It is emotion that I mold and shape and use.  Mycroft remains unaffected by me because he disconnects with his; he can separate himself from them.  You simply don’t understand, which makes you immune. It is your greatest protection from me and, at the same time, your greatest weakness, brother mine.”

He waited.  He could feel that she wasn’t done.  She considered him, looked at the prison psychologist, who was hastily scratching away at the file that he had brought with him, with a sneer of disgust.  Smiled malevolently at the armed guard.  She then erased her features and turned back to Sherlock.

“He won’t wait for you.  He isn’t capable of it.  He needs lust and sex – he needs to feel loved.”  She sneered again at the thought of that, as if it were something disgusting and beneath her. “And there is nothing that you want more than him.  Nothing at all.  Why do you think I put him at the bottom of that well?  It wasn’t to kill him, Sherlock.  I knew you’d find him.  You always save him, in your way.  I took him because I knew that if I had him you would come to his rescue, and to rescue him, you’d need to come to me.  You would do anything for him Sherlock, anything at all.”

“He won’t wait.  He’s getting better, isn’t he?  Your face is more relaxed today.  Your worry is gone.  Which can only mean that his is getting better.  And he will not wait.  He will always be your _mate_ , your _John_ , but someone else will have his mind and body.  His heart.  He wants to give it away so desperately.  He was _so easy_ , Sherlock.”

“Enough!” Sherlock shouted, breathing harshly in through his nose, eyeing her levelly. Much more calmly, he said, “I will not allow you to speak about him, about what you attempted.  You know, assuredly – you broke him. You broke him, Eurus, which I’m sure was your goal – “

“My goal was to break _you_ , Sherlock, and I succeeded.  How can you forget?  ‘ _I will burn the very heart out of you,_ ’” she mimicked with a small, breathy laugh. “James was my creation, my beautiful creation -  I created him to _break_ you and bring you back to _me_. I couldn’t give a shit about John Watson, but he _was_ the way to you.”

She looked at him, a small, knowing smile on her lips.  She waited.

Sherlock stood and turned his back to her.  Pinched his nose.  Stifled the roaring anger in his head.  Tried to clear the rush of blood that he heard in his ears.  Breathed.  He could feel her stare, her little grin.  Could feel the vicious glee in her triumph.

“So why all of this, then.  The yearning and the lecture that I must secure John?  If you were so intent on breaking me, on using him, why the lecture that I must move?  Why do you even care?” He said the words with a poorly controlled rage, spitting as he spoke.

“If you lose him, you will be lost for good.  He is your light, Sherlock.  Your strength.  If you lose him, I lose you." 

"I’ve just gotten you.”

She tilted her head at him, looked at him as if he were a scientific specimen, and said, “I’ve so many plans for you, Sherlock.  And I’ve just gotten you.”

Her glass went black.  The sound from her cell into his room was cut off.  It wasn’t the first time prison control had cut her off, not by a long shot.  She was taken seriously now; even the wrong movement would end their sessions.  It had never gotten this far, however.

He often wondered what she did when she was deemed too dangerous, when the control room shut her off from her visitors.  Did she sit, frighteningly calm, sure of herself, or did she rage, pound on the glass, demand she have her prey back?

He was shaking.  For a moment he was worried that he might lose his balance; the prison psychologist put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock violently shook him off.

“We’ll need to do a debriefing,” the psychologist said, looking at him, assessing him.

“Yes, yes, a debriefing.  Whatever.  Let’s get it over with,” he replied testily, angry at his reaction to his sister.

When they reached the debriefing room, one of the prison lackeys came in and whispered into the psychologist’s ear.  He laughed irritably, shaking his head.  Looked at Sherlock.

“She wants to know if you’ll be back tomorrow.  She reminded the control room that you were the one that insisted on talking.  Said she’s perfectly content simply playing her violin.”

He was fascinated with her.  She terrified him.  He was terrified of her power, of her ability to bring so many worlds crashing down on a whim.  He was terrified of what she would do if he left her.

_‘I couldn’t give a shit about John Watson, but he was the way to you.’_

“I’ll be back,” he said.

The debriefing commenced.


	5. The Chase is On (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John joins Greg for pub night with the Yarders for the first time in a long time. An opportunity arises, and he remembers that once upon a time, he was a damn sexy beast. 
> 
> He's very, very good at being a damn sexy beast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is un-beta'd, so there's most likely mistakes. Also, thanks to the people who are leaving kudos. They are most appreciated.

John stepped out of the rainy twilight into the warmth of the pub.  Truthfully, he preferred the rainy walk to the cacophony of the pub, but it had been a while since he’d taken LeStrade up on an offer to join the Yarders and he’d realized that he missed Greg, that he missed the in your face brashness of Sally, he even missed the complete incompetence of Anderson.   So here he was, grabbing a pint with his mates.

Greg walked up to him with a warm smile. “Eh! There he is!  I wasn’t sure you’d make it; I’m happy that you did.”

John smiled back, warmly and genuinely.  Yes, he missed pub nights with Greg, his friendly mate, his listening ear, likely his (second) best friend. “Happy to be here, mate.  How many pints do you have on me?”

“Not too far ahead.  Watching myself tonight.  Came with a bit of company,” Greg answered, his smile growing impossibly brighter as he looked toward the back-corner booth, a booth that happened to be occupied by his very own Molly Hooper.

“Molly? Greg, you old ladies’ man,”

“Much more than just a one nighter with Molly, John.  She’s the real deal.”

“Yeah?  And when did this happen?”

“Been over three months now, at least.  Got up the nerve during that case with the produce manager,”

John looked at him blankly.

“Must not have been involved in that one, then,” he commented of John. “Took Sherlock a few days.  After the third body I decided it was time to get on with it and I asked her out.  It’s been good, John, really good.”

“Well, I’m happy for you, Greg. Couldn’t have happened to two better people.”

“I’ll pick us up a few pints.  Why don’t you go join her?” Greg suggested, giving John a convivial slap on the back.

On the way back to the booth, he received numerous ‘Eh! Johnny Watson’s’ and back slaps.  More than a few Yarders raised a pint to him.  Sally shouted, “Sherlock off to see his sister, then?” which John answered with nod and a thumbs up. 

Everyone was happy to see him. He was happy to see everyone.  He hadn’t felt like this in a long time.  He felt a puff of pride that the old John Watson was back, at least for the time being.  He settled in opposite Molly with a grin.

“Hi, John!” Molly said, cheeks slightly flushed.  Molly’d never been able to tolerate much drink.  She was picking at a plate of chips that she pushed closer to him.

“So, Greg LeStrade, then?” he teased.

“Yeah,” she said, blushing and looking down at the table. “He’s a good man, John.  Wish it had happened sooner.”

“Well, like I told Greg, I’m happy for you, Molly.  You deserve to be happy.  He makes you happy?”

“Very,” she smiled wistfully.  “It’s been almost too good.  You know how you’re always waiting for the shoe to drop, the bad thing to happen; it’s like you expect everything to go wrong?  During our first date I realized that I didn’t feel like that.  That I felt comfortable with him, like I’d always been with him.  It’s so easy when you find the right person.”

He must have pulled a face because Molly scooted over toward him and put her hand on his. “I’m sorry if I’ve said the wrong thing.  I didn’t mean to.  I know it’s been hard for you.  But I’m so happy that you’re here.”

“No worries, really.  I’ve been so much better.  I’m here, yeah?  A month ago, I wouldn’t have been able to even consider pints with the Yard.  I’m good, Molly, and I really am happy for you.”

She gave him a warm smile and then pulled him in for a warm hug.  Greg arrived back with four pints and another plate of chips.

“Four pints? Getting me caught up?”

“One is actually for Heather – you know, Dr. Love, down the hall from me?  I asked her if she wanted to tag along tonight and she said yes!  It’s not often that I get her out of her lab.  We’re great friends,” Molly said.

Dr. Heather Love.  The American genomics researcher studying the BRCA 1 gene, down the hall from Molly for several years now.  The first time John had caught sight of her had been shortly after he’d began working with Sherlock, shortly after Sherlock had returned.  She’d been bent over one of the counters in her lab, completely engrossed in what she’d been doing.  She’d taken John’s breath away.  But John had been engaged then, in love with Mary, and so after a perhaps longer than necessary look he’d moved on.

That’s not to say that he quit looking.  Dr. Heather Love was otherworldly in her beauty.  Tall, lean, jet black hair pulled up into those messy buns, curls escaping at the nape of her neck.  Pale with plump lips and searing blue eyes.  Always dressed to the nines, she looked like Hollywood’s version of a hospital researcher, not the typical dumpy, bleary eyed scientists that he ran into in their usual, rumpled business casual and wrinkled lab coats. 

The furthest he’d gotten with her had been a quick exchange of ‘Good Morning’s’ as Sherlock and he had been running out of the morgue during a recent case.  In truth, Dr. Love wasn’t someone that he would normally consider chatting up; Sherlock was right (of course he was) in saying that he had a type – he always leaned toward the curvy, sarcastic blonds, the Tinsley Chesterton’s of the world. 

Perhaps it was time that he changed his tenor.

Greg was smiling knowingly at John. “I know.  She’s a bit – overwhelming, isn’t she?”

“She is not!  She’s intelligent and sarcastically funny and fascinating, really,” Molly protested.

“Listen, love.  If the IQ doesn’t get you, the fact that she’s ridiculously beautiful will. Not that you’re not beautiful - !” Greg amended his thought, looking at Molly pleadingly.

“Yes, I know; she’s a scientist in a supermodel’s body.  And she’s well aware of it.  But she doesn’t flaunt it.  Says it doesn’t matter, how she looks.  She says what matters is her brain, and I tend to agree.”

“But that brain, Mols!  An IQ above 170?  It’s right intimidating!”

“Only if you’re a man,”

“We’re not going there again, Molly –“

John felt he had just caught up with the conversation. “I’m sorry,” he broke in, “did you say that she had an IQ of 170?”

“Well, it’s somewhere between 170 and 180.  When you get that high, they can’t get any closer than that.  But she doesn’t like to talk about it, really,” Molly answered.

“But that’s – didn’t Einstein have an IQ that high?” John asked, astonished.  “Why isn’t she at Oxford or Harvard?  How’d she end up at Barts?”

“Maybe you should ask her that,” Molly said, looking toward the door.  Heather Love had just entered, standing a bit in the doorway, shaking rain off her umbrella, looking just as smart as usual in a fitted rain trench coat (Burberry, perhaps – living with Sherlock had given him the uncanny ability to identify designer clothing) and an immaculate (despite the rain) pair of nude Louboutin kitten heels.

Greg was laughing. “Might do to close your mouth, John.”

He’d been gaping.  Holy Christ, but she was even more beautiful than he’d remembered.

John watched the Yarders as she approached the table.  Anderson was also openly gaping until Sally elbowed him under the table, scowling, her eyes narrowed at Heather.  Heather looked impassively at them and then looked toward the back corner.

Their eyes met.  After a moment, he remembered to breathe.

She was smiling by the time she reached their booth. “You’ve got my pint, then,” she observed with her cultured American accent, and then, openly looking John up and down, extended her hand, smiled and said, “I wondered when we’d finally get the chance to talk, Dr. Watson.”

“John,” he’d said, taking her hand, her long fingers tipped with red lacquer. “And I hear you can thank Molly for that.”

Heather looked at Molly, a full, dazzling smile lighting up her face, and said, “Molly’s the best, isn’t she?  I couldn’t have a better lab neighbor.”

“Sit, Heather!  John budge over, give her some room!” Molly said, beaming at her friend.

“Were your ears burning, then?” Greg asked Heather. “We were talking about you when you walked in the door.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Of course,” Molly insisted, continuing, “all the same babble: she’s gorgeous and has a ridiculously high IQ.  Greg can’t get over it.”

Heather smiled a bit self-deprecatingly and said, “What did I tell you, Greg?  None of that really matters and I just get so damn tired talking about it.”

“I know, I really do, but John brought it up,” answered Greg, a sly smile on his face.

“Oy!  I did no such thing!  I didn’t even know about your IQ – which, by the way, is quite impressive and I do have questions about – “

“But you did know that I was gorgeous,” she observed, teasing John.

‘Well, now,’ thought John, a smile growing on his lips, the overwhelming urge to wet them growing.  Best hold that one back for just a bit. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve been here – chatting up a girl in a pub.  And a gorgeous one, at that.’

“Difficult not to notice,” he said, giving her a slow, languorous smile.  Not so difficult to turn it back on, then.  Not so difficult at all.

“Yes, with all those times you spied on me in my lab, I figure you’ve gotten quite an eyeful by now,” she smirked. “Took Molly getting us to a pub at the same time to finally get to chat with you.”

John and Heather both looked at Molly, who was looking back at them in shock. “This isn’t a set-up, if that’s what I’m being accused of!  I mean, well, John, I’ve seen you peeking, and I know Heather’s intrigued by you,”

“Are you, now,” John asked Heather, quirking an eyebrow.

And then the loveliest thing happened.  A beautiful blush appeared on Heather Love’s cheeks, high up on those impossible cheek bones.

“Perhaps,” she answered, looking into her lager.

“Really not a set-up, Heather, I swear it!” Molly persisted.

“But successful nonetheless,” Greg observed, grabbing Molly by the elbow and pulling her from the booth. “Molly, Sally’s been asking about that thing you both talked about.”

“What thing?”

“You know,” he said, looking meaningfully between John and Heather, “that _thing_.”

“Oh!” answered Molly, finally catching on. “Yes, that thing that is very important!”  She smiled and winked at Heather following Greg out of the booth.

John huffed a laugh and looked at Heather, who was looking at him, smiling, looking just as amused.

“Well, that just happened,” she said.

“It did,” he smiled, licking his lips.

Her smile fell from her lips, her pupils contracting as she watched the tip of John’s tongue skim over his lower lip.  The lovely blush reappeared.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Over the next several hours and pints, John learned the following about Dr. Heather Love: she’d grown up in Appalachia, the only child of a single mother who was rarely emotionally stable.  During routine testing at her school she was identified as having a genius level IQ.  After that, the school started to notice the unusual bruises that she would show up to school with and the way she had trouble sitting down (because of frequent canings).

“You have to understand,” she’d explained. “In those days, in the 1970s, particularly in small town Appalachia, people, even the schools, minded their own business.  But when I became special,” she said, with sarcastically, “they couldn’t ignore me anymore.  The state board of education became interested, and the media caught wind of my scores, and all of the sudden CPS was there, and I was being taken from my mother.”

She’d been adopted by a professor at a local university and his wife.  He’d encouraged her intelligence, giving her an area of his biology lab to indulge her curiosities.  She discovered the world of genetics in textbooks and had been hooked from that point forward.  She graduated American high school at 12 years of age.

That’s when the television appearances began.  In the year between her graduation and matriculation at Harvard she appeared on Donahue, The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, The Dick Cavett Show, The John Davidson Show, 60 Minutes, CBS Sunday Morning, and had even appeared in episodes of Kojak, Hollywood Squares, and Medical Center.  Though she didn’t enjoy the appearances, she understood that they would pay for her college education and give her a nice nest egg for her future.

“The talk show hosts would mostly just ask me trivia questions.  You know – name the presidents of the United States in order, name all of the state capitals – it was insulting, really. Carson was nice, though.  He liked talking to children and he actually asked me some real questions about my life and who I was.  Hollywood Squares was fun, too; I got to meet Betty White and Richard Simmons.  But mostly I was just some sort of child freak who could answer any question that you threw at her.  It was uncomfortable and embarrassing, and they really didn’t care at all about _who_ I was, just _what_ I was.”

She and her parents had chosen Harvard because she wasn’t the first child genius who had gone there, not by a long shot.  She moved to Boston with her adoptive mother, who encouraged her to take her classes slowly and try to enjoy her college experience, despite being five years younger than most of her classmates.  She graduated in three years, when she was sixteen.

From there she went on to graduate studies in genetics, still at Harvard. Graduated at twenty.  Then Bethesda, Maryland where she joined the National Human Genome Institute.

“It was an exciting time.  The Human Genome Project was formed in ’90, so I got in on the ground floor, so to speak.  The early years were mostly developing the technology accelerating the elucidation of the genome.  We spent a lot of time sequencing small-scale models, using that data to develop the methodologies used in the large-scale sequencing of the human genome.  Then in ’94 I joined a team at the NIH studying the BRCA 1 gene. I’ve been studying it ever since.  My focus is on whether we can manipulate the gene before birth to prevent its effects entirely.  In addition, I look for ways we can treat those with the gene to prevent the development of breast cancer.  They’ve just recently released a cancer treatment for those with metastatic cancer who exhibit the gene; I want to catch people long before that and prevent the disease entirely.”

She was fascinating.  She was gorgeous.  She had awoken a part of him that had long lain dormant but there was one detail that hadn’t come up that he had to be sure of before he could go any further.

“So, Greg and Molly, eh?” he said, easing into it.

She smiled. “Molly is so happy with him.  He’s good for her.  She needed someone like him.”

“How’s that?” he asked, moving minimally closer.  They’d already begun leaning into each other.  She’d been mirroring his movements since almost the moment they’d begun flirting.  It was a safe assumption that she was interested in him.  Still, he needed the words.

“Oh, you know,” she said, suddenly interested in her napkin, folding it with precision and concentration, “Someone with authority.  Someone strong, who could take the reins in the relationship.”

“And how about you, then?  What sort of man do you need?”

She blushed again.  John couldn’t imagine anything more gorgeous than a woman blushing at his advances. “There you go, assuming I need a man,” she countered, smiling, concentrating on her napkin.

He extended his index finger and put it on the napkin.  Her fingers brushed his. “Well, then, what sort of man do you _want_?” he asked, moving even closer still, his voice dropping in pitch.  He felt her body grow still, heard her take a long breath in through her nose.

“You’re the great John Watson, partner of the one and only Sherlock Holmes, the man behind _The Science of Deduction_ ,” she said, finally looking into his eyes, challenge visible in them. “Why don’t you tell me?”

He smiled, but he made sure that is wasn’t the kind jolly Doctor Watson smile.  No, this was a smile that hadn’t seen the light of day in years.  This smile was full of sex and control and testosterone and promised nothing but wicked intentions. She shivered when he ran his index finger over hers. 

He had forgotten how good he was at this.  ‘Not a time to get cocky now,’ he thought.  Not when he had a beautiful woman under his thrall, someone brilliant and quick with a comeback, someone sharp and more than able to play his game. 

“Hmm,” he intoned, taking the opportunity to take her hand in both of his.  Using the moment to brush his fingers through hers, to barely graze the skin between them before scratching his index finger just so against the middle of her palm, his smile growing even more predatory as he watched her pupils dilate. “You may not know this, but one day I delivered something into your lab for Molly.  Left it on your desk.  Which was very tidy, almost military in its precision.  There was one photo on it, of an older man and woman.  Who I assume are your parents.”

“They are,” she said, her eyes not leaving his.

“Now, if you were in a serious relationship, there would be a photo of a man there, but there wasn’t.  Also, Molly and Greg were more than willing to leave us alone.  So that leads me to assume that you have no man in your life.”

“Also, true, but also quite simple to assume.”

“Yes, but I have finally established that you’re available, haven’t I?”  He paused for effect, finally continuing, his voice lowering in tenor, “Keeping up a perfect appearance can be exhausting.  Perfect desk, perfect clothes, perfect hands; sometimes a person needs to let go, needs to be able to take a _breath_.  Needs someone else to _take charge_.  And not exactly in the Greg LeStrade sort of way.”

He had her.  He felt the shift the moment that it happened.  Felt the want radiating off of her the moment he’d said the word ‘breath.’  He knew she’d keep playing, though.  After all, she’d want to make it good for him, too.

“The Greg LeStrade way?” she asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Mmm.  Good men like him, providers, strong men who do always do the right thing, you can’t find much to criticize them for, can you?  They’re perfect for the Molly Hoopers of the world. But you, Heather, you want a man with a bit more command.  You want someone who will take you to the edge and keep you there until you can’t take it anymore and then hold you when you finally fall off.  Someone who will take command but make sure you’re well taken care of.  Someone, perhaps, who is just a little dark, a little dangerous.”

She was his.  He’d forgotten how heady it was to draw them in, to hold them in his grasp, to turn off kind John and turn on the lady-killer.  He relished in the surrender; it made him feel masculine and virile.  And to have a gorgeous woman under his spell, someone who could give as well as she got?  That was the greatest prize of all.

“And that man would be you, Captain Watson?” Heather asked, her lips slightly quirked.

It always threw him a bit when people brought up bits of himself that he hadn’t freely offered.  It must have shown in his face.

“I’ve read your hospital bio and might have found your blog,” she offered.  “Had to learn about the man that kept undressing me with his eyes every time he passed my lab.”

“I can’t have been the only man doing that,” he countered.

“No, but you’re certainly the most interesting.”  She had said it as a bit of a challenge.

“Yeah?  And why’s that?”

“Where to even begin?” Heather started, looking John up and down.  By this point, John had captured both of her hands, stroking the inside of her wrists and was sitting close enough that they were connected at the shoulder and hip. He had started tangling their legs, casually brushing his up against hers.  She smiled and said, “It took me a while to realize that you weren’t taller than me.  In fact, you’re quite small.  But you seem to tower over everyone else in the room.  And these clothes that you wear.  They’re like a shell, aren’t they, a sort of costume?  All rumpled and ‘good doctor’ but there’s something feral in them, just barely being held back, ready to pounce.  It’s like you vibrate; it’s just beneath the surface of your skin,” she ran her thumbs over the outside of his wrists, “but not everyone can feel it.  And your eyes – “

“What about them?”

“They’re dark.  Sometimes you smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.  The edges might crinkle,” she ran her index finger just along the outside of his left eye, and John had to struggle not to close them, to lean into that touch. “Yeah, it might look like they’re smiling, but there’s something darker behind them, something that says you’ve seen more than you care to share.”

Her eyes were as blue as sapphire but there was melancholy in them.  She’d been there too.

He was falling, he could feel it.  She was beautiful, sensual, blindingly intelligent.  She was cheekbones and sharp edges but soft at the same time.  She was shy glances and blushes and furtive touches, and yet she was allowing him to tangle her up and draw her in.  She was yielding and submissive with just an edge of challenge.

He wanted her more than he had wanted anyone in a very, very long time.

She leaned in even closer, a conspiratorial look on her face.  “Just so you know, Molly’s been talking you up for a while now.” She said, her breath ghosting his ear.

“Has she now?”

“Mm hmm.  You should also know that she’s let one of your secrets slip.  It’s a secret that we both share, a very illegal and _green_ secret.”

John’s eyes widened as she looked between Heather and Molly, who was laughing at something Greg had said at the bar.  His growing anger that Molly would disclose something so sensitive must have shown on his face as Heather quickly added, “She told me because she found out that I use it too.  For PTSD and anxiety.  She saw some of my edibles at my flat.  I’ve been medicating since I was in college.  I don’t get by very well without it.  She told me in greatest confidence that there were others in the hospital that use it and your name might have been brought up.  By me.”

“You guessed it?”

“Well, when you started coming to the morgue with Sherlock, after your – you were in mourning.  You were jumpy and angry and not the John Watson that you’d been before.  Then one day it seemed that you’d mellowed out.  You were smiling.  Your back was straighter. And you have connections. Also, Sherlock let something slip about your little green friend when you were walking down the hall.  Doesn’t take a genius.”

“Jesus,” John swore, closing his eyes and breathing on slowly through his nose.  Now was not the time to get angry.

“I think you’re looking at this all wrong,” Heather said, her voice seductive and teasing.

“Perhaps you can explain to me why I shouldn’t be pissed off that Molly disclosed something like this to someone I hadn’t even met yet?” John challenged, the anger rising in his voice.

“Simple,” Heather answered, a little smile playing on her lips. “Stoned sex.”

“What?” John asked, taken aback by Heather’s abruptness.

“I like you, you like me, we both obviously want each other.  Dr. Watson, have you ever fucked a woman while you were stoned?”

John stared open-mouthed at Heather for a few moments while he composed himself. “Being a bit abrupt, wouldn’t you say?”

“There’s a time for innuendo and there’s a time to be abrupt.  You haven’t answered the question.”

John shook his head in amazement, biting his lower lip. Closed his eyes and took a breath. Further composed himself.  When he opened his eyes to look at her again, his shock was gone, and the hunger was in his eyes again. “I cannot say that I have,” he answered.

Heather gave him a sly smile.  “Well, Doctor Watson,” she said, leaning into his ear so that he could feel her breath ghost his neck, “I do believe that you are about to be introduced to another of the many benefits of our favorite herb.  That is, if you’re amenable.”

Mrs. Hudson had kidnapped Rosie when she found out that Greg had asked John to the pub.  She’d told him that Rosie was more than welcome to spend the night and gave John explicit instructions to get a leg over if the opportunity arose.

Holy Christ, had it arisen.

“Mine’s close.  Just got a fresh supply.  You game?” She was still smiling at him.

John Watson felt his heart speed up, resisted the urge to yet again wet his lips, and gave Dr. Heather Love his most lascivious, carnal smile.

“Holy God.  Am I ever,” he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Mystrade shippers. I know. But Molly needs love, too, and I've always thought Molly and Greg would be a good match.
> 
> [This picture](https://theoriginalotp.tumblr.com/post/178323927577/heather-love-inspo) gave me some inspiration for Dr. Heather Love.
> 
> The cancer drug for those who are BRCA gene positive is called Lynparza (olaparib) in the U.S. It was approved by the FDA in February of 2018, so it's pretty new to the scene. If that sort of thing interests you, [here's an article](https://www.cancer.org/latest-news/fda-approves-first-drug-specifically-for-brca-mutated-breast-cancer.html) about it.
> 
> Come join me at my Johnlock tumblr, [The Original OTP](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/theoriginalotp). Lots of Johnlock, some a bit NSFW, and currently posting a lot of bearded Martin Freeman, because, holy God, he's a sexy beast.
> 
> Next chapter: we've seen drunk John Watson, now we'll get stoned John Watson. And stoned sex. Yes, the sex is coming.


End file.
